


Home is Where the Heart Is

by GuestPlease



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/F, I changed the rating because people like to swear, M/M, Modern AU, Wedding Preparations, kind of?, probably hamilton crossover later, small town AU, takes place years after what would have been great comet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 01:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuestPlease/pseuds/GuestPlease
Summary: Natasha and Sonya Rostova come home to the small town of Moscow for Sonya's wedding. Natasha hasn't been back since an incident with a certain Kuragin-- perhaps, in the old town of their childhood, she'll find something new?





	1. Natasha and Sonya come home

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, the Bolkonskys, Pierre, and Dolokhov aren't here-- yet. 
> 
> And the Hamilton stuff will come into play _later_ when it's actually time for the wedding-- and then I shall tag it as such.

Moscow was a tiny town tucked away in the middle of nothing in the American Heartland. It was named by Russian immigrants, and even to this day, everyone in town, no matter their race, colour, or creed, had at least one Russian ancestor at some point in their family history. The town had been founded by immigrants during the Great Depression fleeing the Stalin’s purges, and since the 1950s had been fairly peaceful. 

Dr. Natalya Ilychna Rostova, or Natasha to friends and family, had been born in Moscow. She’d grown up there, under the watchful gaze of several guardians, with her cousin at her side through most adventures. She’d left after the Incident which had branded her a hussy to many of the townsfolk, though her godmother Marya assured her this was not the case. Sonya, said cousin, had left with Natasha so she wouldn’t be alone. That was the _only_ reason Natasha was returning to this godforsaken town. 

The train screeched to a stop, and Natasha peered through the slatted boards. The station sign read ‘Moscow’, so she rose from the box she had been perched on, cracked her back, and shook Sonya’s shoulder so that she’d pay attention. “We’re there.” 

Sonya looked up from her binder stuffed with wedding plans. “Wh… we are? Already?”  
“It’s been three hours.” Natasha smiled. “Come on, let’s get our luggage.”  
They collected it, then helped the railway workers open the door. Moscow was a small town, but not large enough for passenger trains. If you wanted to come by train, you needed to buy a ticket to the nearest city (depending on the direction), then bribe a railway worker to let you sit in a cargo car for hours on end. 

Sonya blinked at the sunlight, nearly bumping into a tall blond man. "Oh, I'm so sorry..."  
“Well hello—” He purred, before stiffening at the sight of Natasha. “…Natalie. What a pleasant surprise.”  
Natasha crossed her arms. “Kuragin. To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
Anatole Kuragin, instigator of the Incident, sniffed. “I’m here to get the glasses for the bar I ordered.” 

Natasha remembered seeing that box. She really wished she’d kicked it during the three hours in that stupid boxcar. “What bar, Kuragin?”  
Anatole huffed, and crossed his arms as well. “Feddy and I own a bar, Natalie. The only bar in town, now that Doc’s is closed.”  
"How would I know that?" Natasha asked  
Sonya tugged on Natasha’s arm. “Let’s not do this. Marya should be waiting for us, remember?”  


Anatole looked genuinely frightened. “Marya? As in Marya Akhrosimova? She’s _here_?”  
“She should be.” Natasha agreed. “She said she’d pick us up.”  
Anatole paled even further, which was quite a feat given his Slavic features. “I’ve suddenly remembered I have urgent business to attend to.” He grabbed his box and ran out of sight. Natasha heard him yell, “FEDDY, START THE CAR WE NEED TO GO!” 

Sonya sighed. “I don’t see her anywhere. Do you think Anatole was supposed to pick us up and forgot?”  
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Marya’s emails show she doesn’t have a very high opinion of him after what happened. Let’s call her.”  
Sonya quickly dug her phone out of her purse while Natasha kept an eye out for Marya, or even Balaga, the town’s only taxi driver, knowing her phone was buried under a mountain of her clutter.  
Sonya soon put away her phone again. “It’s dead.” 

“Guess we’re walking through town.” Natasha sighed. “Thank God we got rolling bags.”  
Sonya grinned. “I told you it was a good idea. Maybe we shouldn’t have driven off Anatole though.”  
“We did nothing. Kuragin ran away on his own.” Natasha said firmly. “Let’s go before he comes back.” 

Sonya bit her lip, clearly thinking through the terrible idea, but nodded. There was only one road out to Marya’s house—they’d either run into her on the way, or they wouldn’t. However, beyond the sun and the dust, the whispers of the townsfolk that they passed were also annoying. 

“What do you think they’re saying?” Sonya asked.  
“Those two remarkably pretty girls have not been seen in Moscow for many years.” Natasha quipped. “Everyone knows vaguely about your engagement. One of the finest matches in all of America.”  
Sonya laughed. “ _Stop_ , Ginnie isn’t even American.”  
“I mean. She’s named after an American state. That’s _pretty_ American. It’s like you’re marrying Hannah Montana, it’s great.” 

They passed Balaga, who shrugged nonchalantly at them, sitting on a stoop outside Bolkonsky’s general store smoking a cheap cigarette.  
Natasha threw her arms in the air. “ _Come on_ , man! This is the kind of stuff you live for! Ripping off shitty tourists!”  
He flicked the butt towards the bushes. The window immediately opened and someone sprayed a fire extinguisher on them as they caught on fire. Judging by the state of the other bushes around the store, this was a common occurrence. “You’re not tourists, Natalya. I drove your parents to the County Hospital for you, Nikolai, and Vera. I drove your cousin’s parents to the hospital as well—how are you, Sofia?” 

“Good.” Sonya remarked. After a pause, she said, “Hot. Can we have a ride?”  
“I’m on my break.” Balaga said quickly.  
Sonya pulled on Natasha’s arm before she could raise a certain rude salute. “Thanks anyway, Mr. Balaga. Have a nice day.”  
“You too, Sofia!” He called as they trudged down the road. 

“My only consolation is that I’m wearing good shoes. And I only planned it that way because I wasn’t going to be stuck in a boxcar in heels.” Natasha muttered.  
Sonya nudged her gently, which was really as she could do, given the way that they were moving the bags. “ _Hey_. Where’d my adventurous cousin go?”  
Natasha sighed. “I don’t like this town. It’s full of terrible memories.” 

“And fun ones.” Sonya insisted.  
Natasha smiled weakly. “Yeah, I guess. But I grew up. I’m not that little girl anymore.”  
Sonya shrugged, and made a face that suggested that she would have stuck out her tongue if not for the dust all around them. “You need to get out of the hospital more. There’s more to life than work.”  
“I thought you wanted me to get more mature.” Natasha remarked, clearly amused.  
Sonya pursed her lips. “Not like this. I never wanted… you never should have gone through… you know, it’s going to be hard not to strangle Anatole Kuragin while we’re here.” 

Natasha finally laughed. “Oh, thank God, I thought it was just me.”  
Sonya grinned. “Please, he’s got the most punchable face I’ve ever seen! What did you ever see in that guy?”  
“I don’t know, I was in high school, lay off.” Natasha stuck out her tongue, and immediately brought back in a lot of the dust. Sonya covered her smile while Natasha desperately spat out the dirt. 

Natasha shot her cousin a look, but then cracked a smile herself. It was nice to see Sonya calm instead of worried over the wedding, for once. They made their way to Marya’s house, the last one before hitting the prairie and fields that surrounded the town. For reasons beyond Natasha’s understanding, Sonya had always found them enchanting, which was why she and Virginie had decided to get married in Moscow, U.S.A. 

Nonetheless, they did not stray into the tall grass at this time, instead pausing to ring the rusted doorbell of the Akhrosimova house, which had undergone only the most minor of changes since being built. After Natasha had rung the bell and no one came to the door, Sonya seized the brass knocker and banged it on the door. Natasha flinched at the loud noise, but it seemed to have worked as they heard movement inside. A few minutes later, Helene Kuragin opened the door, dressed in a green satin negligee with a matching silk see-through robe.  
Sonya stared, open-mouthed, mostly distressed at the fact that it was the other Kuragin rather than Marya, who had practically raised them, despite being only twelve years older. Natasha was more worried about the fact that is was Anatole’s terrible sister. 

“What have you done with Marya?” Natasha demanded.  
Sonya nodded firmly. “Where is she?”  
Helene cocked her head. “No hello? Fine, I’ll answer your questions. We’re not at anal yet—”  
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Natasha huffed, crossing her arms. "Also, _gross_ I don't need to know about Marya's sex life."  
Helene shrugged. “But mine's fine....? Anyway, she’s in the garden. I’m a little insulted she didn’t mention me, I’ll go with you to yell at her.” 

“What makes you think we want to yell at Marya?” Sonya said, jutting her chin in a way that Natasha had always assumed was meant to be intimidating, but never really had been.  
Helene leaned against the doorframe. “Given how dusty you look, and how Anatole kept having everyone remind him that the glasses were coming in today at _eleven am_ , while Marya has a Post-It note on the fridge saying to pick you up at _one pm_ , I think I can guess what happened.” 

“An honest mistake.” Natasha said, acutely aware of the dust covering her pants, and the sweat running down the back of her neck.  
Helene shrugged again. “Sure, but you should still tell her you’re here. Come on, I’ll help you with your bags.”  
True to her word, Helene helped them pull the bags up the stairs and squeeze them through the thin doorframe. (Ilya Akhrosimova, builder of the house, had purposefully bought a thin door and doorframe to save money. It hadn’t made much difference either way, given that none of his family had received sufficient nutrition for it to be an issue, though his granddaughter Marya was in fact much taller than any previous Akhrosimova on record.) 

Helene then slipped on flip flops (Natasha could only guess where she’d gotten them), and led them through the kitchen to the back garden. Marya was over by the fence, apparently planting tomatoes, and Helene walked over gracefully, squatting by her. “Almost done?” She asked congenially.  
Natasha almost turned to go back in the house and get some lemonade. This would clearly take a while.  
“Helene, I know what you’re asking.” Marya said. The girls could nearly hear the smirk in her voice. Sonya was beginning to think she should join Natasha.  
“Anyway, I can’t. I need to go pick up the girls after I’m done.” Marya continued. 

Helene pouted. “You haven’t even mentioned me to them.”  
“That’s not true, I said that you would be the best person in town to ask if Sonya doesn’t have a wedding dress yet.” Marya said. “I stand by that.”  
Helene sighed, exasperated. “You didn’t tell them I’m living with you.”  
Marya grew still. “I’m not going to ask how you know that, but I’ll tell them in the car. Don’t want to spring it on them.” 

Helene turned and pointedly looked at Natasha and Sonya.  
“I’m not walking all the way back to the train station, Helene.” Natasha said firmly.  
Marya whipped around, and looked ashamed. “You’re early!”  
Sonya grimaced. “The train came in at 11.”  
Marya rose, and brushed the dirt from her hands. “I’m so sorry.”  
Natasha waved her off. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”  
“Water under the bridge.” Sonya agreed. 

Natasha waved her hand near her face in a futile attempt to fan herself. “My cheeks are glowing from the heat, aren’t they? Besides, I think you could use a break too. It’s _hot_ out here, and by the looks of it, you haven’t gone inside in a while.”  
Marya cracked a smile. “You’re already thinking about the home-squeezed lemonade, aren’t you? Well… Helene… clothes?”  
“Oh, right.” Helene said. “…pants?”  
“Please.” Marya agreed.  
“Can’t believe _you’re_ saying that.” Helene teased, kissing Marya as she walked away. 

Marya led the girls into the kitchen, and took out four glasses from the cupboard. Sonya and Natasha sat at the table.  
“So…” Sonya began, glancing in the direction Helene had gone, even if Marya's back was to them.  
Marya removed the jug of lemonade from the fridge. “So?”  
“You and a Kuragin?” Natasha pressed. Marya had always made her disdain for Kuragins following the Incident quite clear. 

Marya poured the lemonade, then turned around, passing them each a glass. Her pale complexion did her no favors here. “I… Helene has never hurt me, or you. At least not directly. She’s sweet, not that she shows it openly. She’s passionate, which she does. She makes me laugh, and she makes me smile and thank God that she not only exists, but that I get to be near her.”   
Sonya smiled. “I think I understand. My fiancee isn’t exactly the same as Helene, but I know you feel the same way about her as I do Ginnie.” 

Natasha smiled wanly. She wanted to feel happy for Sonya, of course she did. But something dark curled in the pit of her stomach—jealousy of having someone just there for you like Marya and Sonya did, the feeling of being left out while they gushed about their lovers. Perhaps even the fear of not spending as much time with them, their platonic affection for her being replaced by romantic attachments.  
Natasha sipped her lemonade and vaguely wondered whether she should have just become a psychologist. 


	2. Bolkonsky's General Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We run into Mary, Pierre, and Andrei.

Helene sauntered into the room, and immediately turned the nearest chair around and sat backwards next to Marya. “My ears are ringing. Talking about me, sweetheart?”   
She leaned in to press a kiss to Marya’s lips. Marya smiled as they broke away. “All good things.”

Helene laughed. “Well, I should _hope_ so, anyway. So, Sonyushka, you’re getting married to the French Ambassador’s daughter, I hear.”   
Sonya smiled. “That’s right, here in town. Well, in the fields Papa and Mama left to me…”   
“You’re going to need quite a lot of supplies.” Marya noted.

Sonya grimaced. “Yeah… I need chairs and an arch, I need catering, I need flowers, I need a cake, I need a dress… I have all summer, and it’s cheaper without a wedding planner, but… I told Ginnie I could do it alone while she wrangles her family friends’ eight respective children, and I just…”   
Natasha looked at Marya and Helene. “I don’t know anything about planning weddings.”

“Of course you don’t.” Helene sighed. “Alright, so it’s down to the four of us, and even then Sonyushka will be supervising… I’ll handle the arch and the dress. Marya?”   
“I can take care of the flowers and find a caterer, maybe even get the ca—”   
Helene elbowed Marya sharply to cut her off.

“Ow! What the hell?” Marya muttered, glaring at Helene all the while.   
Helene smiled innocently. “Natasha darling, can you go inquire about a cake at Bolkonsky’s? And chairs, while you’re at it.”   
“Why get the middle man?” Marya asked, sending Helene another glare.

Helene folded her fingers, smiling all the while. “Please, Natalie darling?”   
“Don’t call me that.” Natasha said, finishing her lemonade and moving the cup to the sink. “Alright, I’ll go ask about a cake. Sonya, how are we doing on that photographer and the booze?”   
Sonya grimaced. “Not that well, ask around about replacements for them too.”

Natasha gave her a thumbs-up, then looked to Marya. “Can I take the car?”   
“Sure.” Marya shrugged. “Oh, if Andrei has any flower seeds at all, I want them.”   
Natasha nodded again, and Marya pointed to a small ceramic dish next to the door. Natasha collected the keys and left for town, her short, curly hair whipping in the wind from the permanently down window.

In a matter of minutes, Natasha reached the center of town. She hopped out of Marya’s truck, not bothering to lock it. Who would steal it? Marya was one of the best marksmen in town last she’d heard, and scared most people witless when angry.

She entered Bolkonsky’s. It was more organized than the last time she’d seen it, neat rows of goods instead of jumbles of boxes littering the floor, but the smell of coffee, paper and something herbal—dried mint, possibly—persisted. Natasha took a deep breath, then walked to the counter. “I need… Pierre?”

Pierre Bezukhov turned around and smiled. “Natasha, hello.”   
Natasha blinked several times. “Wow. You look… better.”   
“I would hope.” Pierre chuckled. “I’m off the drink, I’m helping out Andrei, I’m on anti-depressants… it’s all thanks to Andrei, really. What can I do for you?”

“Okay, so you know about Sonya’s wedding, right?” Natasha watched Pierre for his reaction.   
“Who doesn’t?” Pierre leaned on the counter. Natasha heard movement in the back room, and Andrei cursing loudly.   
Natasha elected to ignored Andrei for now. She’d cross that bridge later. “I need some wedding stuff. Like a cake?”

Pierre frowned. “Helene told me to specifically redirect you to Andrei for that.”   
Natasha planted her hands on the counter. “Pierre, I need you to tell me _right now_ if you think Helene is trying to get me and Andrei back together.”   
Pierre’s frown deepened into a scowl. “I hope not. Andrei and I are _very_ happy.”

Andrei punctuated this statement with a very loud curse in Russian. Nonetheless, Natasha nodded firmly. “Thank _God_. I am no longer seventeen, Pierre.”   
Pierre nodded firmly. “Everyone is very different.”   
Andrei finally emerged from the back room, cursing under his breath. “The boxes fell again.” “Fucking boxes.” Pierre agreed diplomatically.  Andrei froze upon seeing Natasha. “What are you doing here?”

Natasha fidgeted. “A few things. First of all, I never really apologized for what happened. I’m sorry Andrei.”   
“…okay?” Andrei said, glancing back at Pierre and mouthing, ‘what is happening?’ Pierre shrugged.  Natasha pursed her lips. “I… I don’t want to pick up where we left off. We wouldn’t be who we are today if we had stayed together, and even if Anatole Kuragin is a weasel wearing a human suit like it’s a goddamn mech, he did help us in that respect. But I do want to be friends, Andrei.”

Andrei blinked rapidly for a few minutes. “I… okay. Wow. Of course we can be friends. Is there anything you needed in particular, or did you just come to make this declaration of friendship?”  “Sonya’s engaged to Virginie Lafayette, and they’re getting married here.” Natasha explained. “I need chairs, booze, a photographer, and I need to specifically ask you for a cake, according to Helene.”   
Andrei frowned. “Well, we don’t sell that many chairs… you’ll probably have to ask around for those. I don’t know anything about a photographer though. If you want booze, you need Kuragin, and we don’t talk to him or Dolokhov.”

“I thought you and Kuragin were friends.” Natasha said to Pierre.  Pierre frowned. “Well… it’s complicated. Anatole has a lot of issues he has yet to work through. _Andrei_ doesn’t talk to him, and I certainly don’t talk to Dolokhov, but I do chat with Anatole sometimes.”   
“He’s trying to push you back to alcohol.” Andrei huffed.

Pierre waved him off. “He’s really not. At least, not anymore.”   
Andrei cracked a savage grin. “Well, I _am_ sorry for Fyodor…” 

Natasha looked at Pierre for an explanation. He sighed. “When I quit drinking, Anatole panicked a little. I was one of his best customers. He tried to nudge me back to drinking, and Andrei didn’t take kindly to it. He… well, he told Anatole to stop, but then Dolokhov stepped in, and next thing you know, they were brawling in the middle of town.”   
“I won.” Andrei said smugly.

Pierre kissed Andrei gently. “You did. It also helped you work out some of your aggression, so that’s good.”   
Natasha nodded. “So… Helene insists I ask _you_ for a cake. Oh, I just remembered—Marya  wants to know if you have any flower seeds?”   
Andrei frowned. “I can’t bake. What is Helene… no. No no no. I will _not_ bring her into whatever drama is being stirred up.”

“Sonya needs a cake.” Natasha said. “It’s not drama.”   
Andrei crossed his arms. “It’s always drama when there’s a Kuragin involved.”   
Natasha conceded this point. “And the flower seeds?”

“That I _can_ help you with.” Andrei said. Then he looked towards the door. The sky had somehow immediately darkened, with the wind picking up. Dogs began to howl. Across the county, musically inclined middle schoolers gave a dramatic sting, and theatrically inclined high schoolers began to chant the witches’ incantation from Macbeth.

“Is it a tornado?” Natasha asked.   
“Worse.” Pierre hissed. Without warning, he and Andrei both grabbed one of Natasha’s arms and pulled her behind the counter. “What the _hell_ —” Natasha began before Pierre covered her mouth. Both of them remained crouched behind the counter while Andrei stood up straight, forcing a smile.

The door opened, and Natasha heard the sound of a wheelchair and footsteps.   
“Father.” Andrei said by way of greeting. “Hello, Mary.”   
“Hello.” An incredibly soft voice began before Bolkonsky interrupted. “Andrei! Where is that idiot, Pierre?”   
“Out on an errand, Father.” Natasha glanced up to see Andrei had forced a smile.

“Always out on an errand, isn’t he?” Bolkonsky spat. “And I see you have continued to make this place a pile of shit.”   
“How would you run it, Father?” Andrei asked.   
“Don’t ask stupid questions, boy.” Bolkonsky growled.

“Yes Father.” Andrei’s fist clenched out of his father’s sight. “Is there anything else? I can drop off supplies for you later, perhaps Mary would like the opportunity to pick something new out?”   
“I’ll not spend good money on Mary.” Bolkonsky said.   
“It’s no trouble, Father.” Andrei said. “Free for her, as a granddaughter of the founder.”

“You spoil her.” Natasha could hear the sneer in Bolkonsky’s voice.   
Andrei forced a laugh. “Well, one day she’ll marry some man and no longer be my responsibility.”   
“Who’d want her?” Bolkonsky huffed. “I’m going to Kuragin’s for a drink. Mary?”   
“Father, I don’t want to darken the door of that establishment.” Mary said quietly. “Please, Father.”

“Your Lord wouldn’t want it, is that it?” Bolkonsky sneered. “Fine.”   
He soon left, and Natasha popped her head back up. “What was _that_?”   
“You know my father.” Andrei muttered angrily. “He’s in a good mood today.”

Mary however, screamed. “Natalya Rostova? What are you doing here?!”   
“I need supplies for Sonya’s wedding.” Natasha replied, walking around and letting herself out of the counter. “And Helene insisted I come here for the cake.”   
“Helene?” Mary asked quietly, looking at Andrei. “Helene Kuragin?”

Andrei’s eyes flickered between Mary and Natasha as Pierre stood himself, sure that Bolkonsky wouldn’t return. Andrei finally sighed. “Mary, what does Helene Kuragin know about you?”   
Mary flinched. “She-she knows I’m not… that I’m… she _knows_.”   
“It’s alright, Mary.” Andrei laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “You’re safe here, Father’s gone, and I doubt Natasha has a problem.”

“She knows my sexuality.” Mary whispered. “I confessed to her one day.”   
Andrei rubbed her shoulder gently. “You’re a good girl, Mary, no matter what happens. Don’t forget that.”   
Mary nodded, but then her eyes shifted to Natasha. “What are you doing here, Rostova?”   
“Again. I need supplies for Sonya.” Natasha said firmly. She and Mary had clashed before, but Mary had never seemed so furious as she did right now.

“You’re not going to hurt my brother again! He’s very happy with Pierre.” Mary said. Her voice wavered slightly, but she crossed her arms.   
“I’m glad.” Natasha said. “I already said I only wanted to be friends with Andrei now. Also a cake. I very much want a cake so that Sonya won’t burst into tears.”

Mary bit her lip. Andrei nodded at her. “Go on, Mary. I think Helene Kuragin supports this, and you’re friends with her, aren’t you?”   
“Personally, I don’t understand how anyone can be friends with Helene, but she wouldn’t place you in harm’s way.” Pierre agreed.   
Mary held out her hand to Natasha. “I’ll make you a wedding cake, I often participate in church bake sales. But I need your help, I’m not used to that sort of scale or detail work.”

Andrei and Pierre shared a look, and then Pierre shrugged.   
“Sure.” Natasha agreed. “I’m no baker, but I’m apparently skilled with my hands.”   
Mary nodded slowly. “That’s-that’s good. I’m glad you don’t… that it’s no longer the way it was in high school.”   
“Agreed.” Natasha returned the nod. “I don’t even remember what started it, before I started dating Andrei you were always so sweet to me.”

Mary looked away, faintly blushing. “I… Father, maybe? I don’t… Andrei?”   
“Okay, that’s enough.” Andrei said. “You should be getting back to Marya and Helene with the supplies, Natasha. You can see Mary tomorrow, Kuragin’s good for distracting him.” Pierre moved to collect the flower seeds in the store.  
“Wait.” Mary said quickly. “I’m sorry for being rude when I saw you a few minutes ago. I just didn’t want you to hurt Andrei again.”

Natasha smiled warmly, and held Mary’s hands in hers. “I’d do the same for Sonya or Nikolai, don’t worry.”   
Mary flushed again, and Natasha briefly wondered how hot she was in this weather and that modest dress. That couldn’t be healthy.

“You should wear lighter clothes in the summer.” Natasha recommended. “Perhaps a sundress? I know Helene’s busy right now, but I bet you’d look cute in one.”   
Mary made a squeaking sound, and Andrei shook his head. Natasha hurriedly backtracked—Mary had always been religious, perhaps she was preserving her modesty? “Not that you don’t look cute now!”

Mary’s eyes widened, and Natasha realized that she was still gently holding Mary’s hands.   
“Please don’t give my baby sister an aneurysm.” Andrei sighed.   
Pierre handed Natasha the seeds, and she in turn handed Andrei the money. “Bye, Pierre, Andrei. Bye, Mary.” She exited the shop, and as she heard the door close, she heard Andrei say, “So, still not over high school, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case I don't get to it later, Mary had a huge crush on Natasha in high school, and was jealous of her brother. She's also a lesbian, so Andrei saying he'll stop marrying her when she marries a man means that will never, ever happen.


	3. Kuragin's Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mary :(
> 
> Also credit to @thepinballer for the conversation between Andrei and Pierre

Somehow, in the span of time that Natasha was gone, Helene had begun planning out Sonya’s wedding dress. Papers covered the kitchen table, both notes and discarded sketches. Natasha picked one up and noticed a huge bow at one shoulder. She made a face, then dropped it and proceeded to the living room. Sonya was standing on a footstool while Helene buzzed around her with a measuring tape. Every so often she stopped to make notes on a sketch of a dress she’d made. Natasha walked over and picked up the sketch, viewing it appreciatively. It seemed to have some of the elements of the wedding dresses in the all-important binder.

“Helene, this really isn’t necessary.” Sonya said as Helene took her underbust measurements.  
“Of course it is—haven’t you ever had tailored clothes?” Helene asked, before looking at Natasha. “30 inches and a quarter.”  
Natasha hurriedly marked it down with a nearby pencil.

“Your dress will fit you _exactly_.” Helene announced. “Did you run into Mary, Natasha?”  
“I did… why didn’t you just tell me to go to her?” Natasha asked.  
Helene snorted. “Bolkonsky.”  
“Andrei?” Sonya asked. “What about him?”

Helene shook her head. “Breathe out. And no, Nikolai Bolkonsky has yet to drop dead and let us all be free of him.”  
“Helene, he’s old.” Sonya said. "You shouldn't say such things."   
“He’s a terrible person, he came in with Mary.” Natasha noted.  
Helene looked away from Sonya. “Did he say anything cruel to you? Marya can scare him straight.”

“No, no, no, nothing like that.” Natasha said hurriedly. “He didn’t even seem to know I was in town. He’s just… a terrible old man.”  
“Many old men are terrible.” Helene agreed, returning to Sonya. “What else did you get?”  
“Seeds for Marya—Andrei couldn’t help me with booze, chairs, or a photographer, and apparently I need to go to Kura—Anatole for the liquor.”

Sonya looked at Helene, who looked up at her. “What? You think I’m going to go ask Anatole for alcohol? I’ll talk to Anatole about anything, but you can stand to ask him for booze yourself.”  
“Why?” Natasha asked.  
Helene raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s been twelve years and my brother deserves a chance to try to be a bigger person for once in his life. Understand, Natasha,  I know that sometimes Anatole can be incredibly shitty, but when your father is Vassily Kuragin, you find something to drown yourself in. Anatole chose alcohol and partying, Ippolit chose stupidity, and I chose sex. And also partying, but that’s beside the point. Anatole’s not a bad man, especially since Father decided to retire to Miami with Ippolit.”

“He’s not a _bad_ man…” Natasha agreed hesitantly. “But he can still definitely be an asshole.”  
Helene laughed. “Yeah, but can’t we all? Didn’t your brother once tie a firework to some poor cow’s tail?”  
Sonya laughed. “No, Nikolai never would have been brave enough to do that alone. Natasha and Petr did it.”

“Sonya _why_ …” Natasha fake-groaned. “I hate you, you’re my enemy forever.”  
Sonya giggled, and Helene looked triumphant. “So, you’ll talk to Anatole?”  
“Tomorrow.” Natasha sighed. “Before I help Mary.”

Helene blinked rapidly. “Help… Mary? Help with what?”  
“She asked me to help her out with the cake—I might need the binder, actually?” Natasha said.  
Helene smirked. “She asked _you_ to help her? I am impressed.”

“Okay, what does that mean? Is that a jab at my cooking?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you know Mary Bolkonskaya?”  
“Bolkonskaya? Honey, this isn’t the old country.” Helene said, choosing to fixate on that instead of Natasha’s questions. Anything else, she simply ignored, so Natasha left to find Marya, clutching the seed packets.

She found her in the fields where the wedding was to take place. Marya had assembled several picket fences, and had unclipped the wedding layout from the binder which she constantly referred to.  
“Marya?” Natasha called.  
Marya jumped, then turned and smiled at her. “Natasha, did you get the seeds?”

“I did. What do you need them for?” Natasha asked. “You have a vegetable garden.”  
Marya gave a satisfied smile. “We need to plant them here. Some in the garden, those can form bouquets, but most of them can form a sort of carpet for Sonya and her fiancée to walk on.”

Natasha let out a low whistle. “That’ll be beautiful. Do we have the resources for that?”  
“Of course.” Marya grinned. “But we need to plant these flowers as soon as possible, and we need the finalized guest list—according to Sonya, Virginie Lafayette keeps sending updates.”  
Natasha sighed. “Let’s just assume everyone who knows Virginie Lafayette is coming. At the very least, there will be 69 people, and that’s just those she considers family more or less, or her parents’ friends.”  
“Jesus…” Marya muttered.

“And Virginie is apparently distantly related to Belgian royalty.” Natasha sighed. “And Prussian royalty, but that doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m just thankful it’s not her sister Anastasie— _she_ is a social butterfly, and this town would be swollen with people like a zit about to pop.”  
“Colorful metaphor.” Marya remarked drily. “But point taken. Help me expand the pickets.”

Natasha worked to move the pickets with mathematical precision while Marya planted most of the flowers. They worked for the rest of the day before turning in. Helene had helped out and made dinner, which was ravenously devoured despite being boxed pasta with sauce from a jar.

Natasha fell asleep in her old room quickly, too tired to stay up and think about anything. Sonya wasn’t as lucky, and pulled her pillow over her head to try to block out the squeaking of the bedsprings from Marya’s room.

Across town, Pierre and Andrei were readying themselves for bed. Unlike Bolkonsky and Mary, they lived above the shop, where they could be in relative peace. Pierre had grown used to a very set routine, both day and night. But tonight, partially because Andrei was once again dealing with those boxes, he was late.

Pierre didn’t like to be alone with his thoughts. To him, that was a fate worse than death. And yet, here he lay, waiting for Andrei to follow the routine they’d practically etched in stone. And then Pierre thought of Natasha.  
Andrei had wanted to marry her. Andrei had admitted he’d _loved_ her, and Pierre had quietly wondered to himself if was just the next best thing while Natasha went off on her adventures. Now Natasha was back. She had said she didn’t want Andrei like that, but if Andrei wanted _her_ , it wouldn’t really matter. The heart couldn’t be stopped.

Pierre burrowed into the blankets, trying to force the thoughts from his mind. Andrei was late because of the boxes. Nothing more. He heard the sound of cars in the town square, but that was just people returning home. Andrei wasn’t leaving, right? He wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. He **_wouldn’t_**!

The floorboard creaked, and Pierre looked up, those thoughts flying out of his mind. Andrei smiled at him, a private, tired smile. “You were having those thoughts again, weren’t you?”  
“I still think that Napoleon was the Anti-Christ, and you can’t convince me differently.” Pierre said.  
Andrei, still smelling of toothpaste and wearing worn pajamas he’d received in high school, crawled across the bed to Pierre. “You know what I meant.”

Andrei slung an arm around Pierre and buried his face in Pierre’s neck. “What are you worried about, Pierre?”  
“I’m worried that I’m just a replacement.” Pierre admitted.  
Andrei raised his head. “For who—Natasha? No. You’re my Pierre, I love you more than life itself. I would have spiralled off into an uncaring asshole without you years ago. Do you know the only reason I didn’t toss Natalya Rostova out of my store, customer and my sister’s crush be damned?”

Pierre shook his head.  
“Because you told me a fallen woman should be forgiven.” Andrei laid his head on Pierre’s chest. “Remember? It was years ago, you were in the middle of reading some old book— ‘ _Tess D’Urbervilles_ ’, maybe, and you were fuming about the way that she was treated. You make me want to be a better person, and I love you more than anything. Hell, I probably love you more than Mary.”

Relief flooded Pierre. “I love you too.”  
Andrei smiled, then yawned. “Let’s get some sleep.”    
Pierre turned out the light, and nestled close to Andrei, sleep soon claiming them both.

The next day, Natasha woke up at eight, ate a poptart (left the other for Sonya, as was their unspoken agreement), gathered the cake pages from the binder, and left for town. The stores had already opened, including Anatole’s bar, named ‘The Club’. Natasha grimaced as she looked at it. She really, really didn’t want to go in there. _But_ Helene and Marya would give her a disapproving look, and there would almost definitely be a fight at Sonya’s wedding if something to placate people wasn’t there. Probably Virginie’s American ‘uncles’ would begin it.

Natasha steeled herself, knocked on the door, and stepped inside. Across the town square, Mary Bolkonsky nearly dropped her purchases. Natasha was going into _Kuragin’s bar_. Mary’s mind whirled with shock—Natasha was a drinker? What was she doing in there—did she still want Kuragin? Did she come back for _him_? Mary was pretty sure it was a sin to sneak, but she’d go mad if she didn’t know exactly what type of woman Natalya Rostova was and what her intentions in _that_ den of sin were.

Mary crept to the window of the bar. No one noticed her, no one ever noticed her. She could hear the conversation through the door Natasha had left open.

Anatole Kuragin looked up from cleaning the bar. “What can I do— _Natalie_?”  
“Natalya. Dr. Rostova also works.” Natasha said, before sighing. “I didn’t come here to fight you, Kuragin.”  
Anatole watched her warily. “Okay?”

Natasha shuffled awkwardly. “And… it’s not fair for me to ask for Andrei’s forgiveness and friendship without offering you the chance to ask for the same.”  
“I literally never did, but okay.” Anatole said. He then sent her a suspicious look. “Did Helene send you here?”  
“Partially.” Natasha admitted.

Mary’s heart pounded from the window. _Helene_ was behind this? But… Helene was helpful. Helene had _listened_ when she had said she’d had a crush on Natasha in high school, that she had never liked boys—and even then, mostly just Natasha.

“Alright.” Anatole raise an eyebrow. “Is this an apology for telling me Marya Akhrosimova was going to come beat my face in?”  
“I never said that.” Natasha replied.  
“At the train station!” Anatole squawked. “Literally just yesterday! It was _very_ troubling.”  
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “I only said that Marya was coming to pick us up.”  
“As though Marya Akhrosimova and I would be in the same area and it wouldn’t end in violence.” Anatole huffed.  
Dolokhov chose this moment to enter the room, carrying a crate. Mary assumed it was full of liquor from her vantage point.

Anatole frowned when he saw him, leaping nimbly over the bar to take the crate from Dolokhov. “Feddy, you’re still recovering from when Bolkonsky beat the shit out of you.”  
“What’s this about Marya Akhrosimova, then?” Dolokhov laughed.  
Anatole stepped between Dolokhov and Natasha. “He has a point. If you’re looking for a fight… we’re not interested.”

“I am unsure if you’ve been listening, but I’m not here for a fight.” Natasha told him, before angling her body to make eye contact with Dolokhov. “Hello Fyodor.”  
“Hey, Natalya. Welcome back to town.” Dolokhov said evenly. “We didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday.”  
Natasha shrugged. “Thanks, Fyodor. You’re a lot calmer than I remember.”

“You’re not trying to steal my boyfriend.” Dolokhov grinned.  
Natasha opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, frowning. She looked at Anatole, then back at Dolokhov several times before deciding that it was ultimately not worth it. “I have something to ask you two, seeing as you have a liquor license.”

“Yes, we are open.” Anatole said.  
Natasha sighed, exasperated. “ _No_. I need good quality alcohol for Sonya’s wedding. And I mean _good_ , otherwise she’ll probably have an aneurysm over her fiancee’s family finding it distasteful or something. I’ll pay, of course… or Sonya will… you know what? Sonya’s fiancee’s family can chip in and pay something.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Anatole asked. “Of course we’ll help!”  
Dolokhov narrowed his eyes. “Why would they find it distasteful, and if you’re a doctor and you find it expensive, how do you know they’ll pay for it?”  
Natasha shifted uneasily. “Sonya is marrying the daughter of the French Ambassador.”  
“I love the French!” Anatole announced.

Dolokhov crossed his arms. “Hold on, Anatole. We discussed this—rushing into things leads to mistakes.”  
“But it’s so much money!” Anatole hissed, gesturing to their bar.  
“ _But_ if Natasha’s right, the President of the United States is coming to Moscow.” Dolokhov continued.  
At the window, Mary gasped and covered her mouth. The _President_ … Dolokhov had to be lying, right? Oh, God protect her, her cakes weren’t good enough for the _President_! Why had she agreed to this? Why had she been taken in so easily by—you know what, considering it was Natasha who asked, she was pretty sure she knew why. But still, it was the principle of the thing.

“Possibly.” Natasha said.  
“Improbably.” Dolokhov replied. “We need to make sure we’re paid for this kind of thing, Natasha.”  
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a liar.”  
Dolokhov cracked his neck, as though gearing up for a fight. “I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying, I need proof before I order this much and this quality alcohol.”

“Before _I_ order it.” Anatole interrupted.  
“Before _we_ order it.” Dolokhov amended. “As business associates, we must confer and take every precaution.”  
“Didn’t you say you two were dating?” Natasha asked.

“We can multitask!” Anatole huffed. “Business in the bar, _business_ in our bedroom.”  
“A system that makes everyone happy.” Dolokhov agreed.  
Natasha blinked rapidly. “I did _not_ need to know anything about your sex life.”  
Anatole pointedly pulled his collar down, and Natasha saw a mess of hickeys. A lot looked like they had broken the skin. “Oh, Natalie, you don’t know _anything_ yet.”

“Why are you like this.” Natasha remarked flatly. “Anyway, I’m out—I need to go help Mary with the cake. I’ll be back tomorrow with the proof.”  
“ _You_ are helping _Mary Bolkonsky_ with the wedding cake?” Dolokhov asked. “That’s like Anatole helping me change the oil in the truck.”  
Natasha frowned. “Dolokhov, how much do you know about me?”

“From high school? A lot.” Dolokhov answered freely. “Since then, not much. Again, you were a rival for my boyfriend’s affections. That being said, I do have you to thank for giving me motivation to pull up my Home Economic grades.”  
Mary seethed by the window. Stupid Dolokhov, flaunting his liquor and how he and Kuragin lived without being married. She was well aware of the fact that Natasha could burn water, but Natasha didn’t know that.

Mary scrambled out of the way as Natasha stepped out, pressing herself up against the wall of Kuragin’s den of sin, thoughts whirling around her head. Mostly she just felt shame now—shame that she had misled Natasha, shame for spying on Kuragin and Dolokhov, shame for not trusting Natasha. She _was_ just as wretched as Father always—

“Mary?” A soft voice broke her from her thoughts.  
Mary turned her head to see Natasha.

“What are you doing here?” Natasha asked.  
Mary bit her lip. It would do no good for her to sink deeper into these sins and lies. “I… I was spying on you. And Kuragin. I wanted to know if you were a drunkard, or if Kuragin would…” Mary clasped her hands behind her back, staring at the ground, just as though Father was there.

“Do you think I’m a drunkard?” Natasha asked softly.  
Mary shook her head. “No.”  
“Do you often spy on Kuragin?”  
“No.”

“Mary, I’m not your father. You don’t have to look like… _that_.” Natasha gestured to how Mary seemed to shrink in on herself. “Just talk to me, I’m not going to… punish you or whatever.”  
Natasha gave a quick glance behind her to make sure that Kuragin hadn’t followed and decided to make a lewd comment.  
Mary flinched. “Sorry. I’m just… used to it, I suppose.”

Natasha took Mary’s hands in hers. “Mary, look at me.”  
Mary looked up. “I’m sorry.” She croaked.

Natasha pulled her into a hug. “There’s no problem—it’s good to know there was someone watching out for me. I don’t trust Kuragin as far as I can throw him.”  
Hesitantly, Mary hugged Natasha back, then squeezed tightly, as though she was drowning and Natasha was her lifeline. They stayed like that for quite some time.


	4. Pierre and Dolokhov would be terrible matchmakers tbh

Mary eventually calmed down, especially since Natasha held her while tears threatened to spill. No one had done that before—Father wouldn’t hit her, but he’d hit Andrei, and that was the end of it. Mary dried her tears, and quietly led Natasha to her house, sneaking her into the kitchen.

“So, I heard what you said to Kuragin.” Mary finally said. “About… the president.”   
Natasha grimaced. “Yep.”   
Mary bit her lip. “I’m not… I make cakes for bake sales. It’s nothing fancy. It’s not even that good.”   
“Helene thinks your work is good.” Natasha said. “And you probably don’t remember, but I couldn’t even bake a tray of cookies without them being charred, much less a wedding cake. It’ll be fine, I just told Kuragin I needed the best of the best because I didn’t want him giving us cheap shit.”

Mary’s hands flew to her mouth at the word, but she nodded uncertainly. “I remember your… baking. But I know you’re in the city and you’re used to things like this but this is _Moscow_. We’re not fancy like that.”   
Natasha watched her for a minute, before saying, “Cheetos.”   
“What?” Mary asked.

“Cheetos. Virginie likes Cheetos, and watching Netflix in her underwear in the apartment that Sonya and I share. She’s over so often that she practically lives there too. According to her, she binges the least on American junk food in her family, and they’re actually descended from royalty. And yeah, she counts the president among her family members, and she always has. He practically adopted her father when he came over around the birth of her eldest sister. And do you want to know a secret about the president, Mary?”

“Yes.” Mary blinked, wide-eyed.   
Natasha leaned in, smiling. “The president really, really likes Twinkies. Loves them, according to Virginie. He also likes shi—I mean, terrible Halloween candy. He just has a huge sweet tooth, and even if your cake wasn’t going to be amazing, he’d love it. Besides, it’s about Sonya and Virginie, not him, and luckily I remembered Sonya’s notes today.”

Mary took the papers Natasha offered, trying to calm her racing heart by burying herself in the notes. Natasha gave a lot of compliments—she’d complimented Mary just yesterday—and probably gave them to a lot of people. By God, Natasha probably didn’t even _like_ girls, much less Mary.

“Are you okay?” Natasha poked her gently.   
Mary started, giving Natasha a quick smile. “Perfectly fine, why do you ask?”   
“Because I’ve never seen anyone stare at a picture of cake with such fervor.” Natasha remarked drily.   
Mary forced a laugh to clear the air. “I can do layers of cake, but a wedding cake needs detail work. I’m not used to it.”

Natasha smiled. “I’m not either, but I pride myself on my attention to detail. I’m no surgeon, but I’m good enough at it.”   
“What is your field, then?” Mary asked.   
“I’m a general practitioner.” Natasha shrugged. “Like Dr. Kutuzov. How is he, by the way?”

“He died.” Mary grimaced. “He got sick and his estate passed to his daughter Praskovia and her husband. Everyone’s been driving out to the city to see the doctor, which means most people don’t think it’s worth it.”   
Natasha was quiet for a moment. “I could recommend someone to come out here once they finish up their residency. They would jump at the chance.”

Mary nodded slowly. “So… when exactly is the wedding?”   
“Hmm… I think… next month?” Natasha shrugged, before fiddling with her phone. “Yeah, about a month from today. Ginnie’s family and friends are going to start pouring into town in about three and a half weeks. I guess I have that long to get back into Balaga’s good graces so he can drive around the various cabinet members and I don’t have to pack them all into Marya’s truck.”

“How many could there be, really?” Mary gave a small smile.   
Natasha dug through her notes. “Wait, wait, wait… I found it… okay, the lowball estimate is around 70 people, the high estimate with all of Anastasie’s friends and the reporters is 350… it’s probably around 180 people, honestly? We can’t even get a response from Mom and Dad, much less Nikolai.”

“I can do 180 people.” Mary said, before blushing. “I didn’t mean that in a _dirty_ way…”   
Natasha laughed. “It’s really fine.” She boosted herself up onto the counter. “So—from the notes, devil’s food cake, 180 people, 4 tiers and I’ll do the detailing. Is there anything else that you can think of that we need to discuss?”

“No, I think I’ve got it. Does your cousin want to test out several recipes for Devil’s Food Cake, or just… the classic cake?” Mary moved to her bookshelf, running her fingers over the old cookbooks she’d bought at church sales, that had been given to her, that she’d found on the side of the road, and that she’d hoarded when the librarian decided many of the current stock were outdated and gave them away. Classic, classic… perhaps King Arthur’s recipes?

“It’s kind of one thing, isn’t it?” Natasha asked.   
Mary turned back, smiling. “No. Well, yes, but there are so many twists. I have a recipe with a hint of coffee, one with a hint of cinnamon, one that has a brandy glaze—I can change that one so it’s soaked in the brandy, it shouldn’t interfere with the icing.”   
Natasha was silent, and Mary hurriedly backpedaled. “I’m sorry, I was rambling, wasn’t I?”

Natasha hopped off of the counter, then made her way over to Mary and took her hands in hers gently. “Mary, I like hearing about baking from you. It’s clear how much you love it, and it’s great seeing you that passionate or happy about something.” She absentmindedly brushed Mary’s hair behind her ear, and Mary’s heart nearly stopped.

Just then, a door upstairs banged open, and Mary’s heart nearly stopped for a different reason.   
“GIRL!” Bolkonsky roared. “WHERE ARE YOU?”   
“You need to go.” Mary said, more firmly than she felt.   
Natasha looked up. “I can help—”

“ _No_.” Mary said. “Go. Now.” She resisted the urge to wring her hands. Of _course_ this would happen—what was she thinking? That Natasha would kiss her? Natasha liked boys. Silly, stupid Mary.   
“I don’t care what your father says about me.” Natasha said. “It can’t be worse than the time he walked in completely naked.”   
Mary ground her teeth. Was this what it was like to be Andrei? “He’s _not_ going to be happy to see you here. _Go_.” A part of her broke, and she felt tears prick at her eyes. She hurriedly wiped them away. “ _Please_ , Natasha. Just go.”

“I’ll be back.” Natasha said stubbornly, glaring at the ceiling.   
“GIRL!” Bolkonsky yelled again. “ARE YOU _DEAF_?”   
Mary ran out of the kitchen, snagging a bottle of pills on her way out. “Coming, Father!”   
Natasha pursed her lips in a very Marya-like fashion, then snuck out the door.  

Across the town square, Pierre stepped outside the store, took a deep breath, and walked into the bar. Anatole was on the upper level, loudly singing along to what must have been his headphones, and Dolokhov was behind the bar. He raised an eyebrow at Pierre. “I don’t want Bolkonsky to fight me again.”

“It’s… not that.” Pierre admitted.   
“Anatole’s upstairs.” Dolokhov grunted, before wiping at a particularly resistant spot on the counter.   
“I KNOW EXACTLY WHY I WALK AND TALK LIKE A MACHINE!” Anatole belted out from above them. “I’M NOW BECOMING MY OWN SELF-FULFILLED PROPHECY!”

Pierre cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to talk to _you_.”   
Dolokhov looked as though he wanted to raise his eyebrow further, but human physiology constrained the boundaries of his interest/curiosity. “Why?”   
“Well… did you… feel slightly threatened when Natasha Rostova came back?” Pierre asked quietly.   
“Oh definitely.” Dolokhov turned back to the stain, apparently not finding this worthy enough for his attention. “Anything else?”

“Well… I just… I worry that she’s going to somehow steal Andrei back? I was wondering if you felt the same way, even if Anatole reassured you?”   
Dolokhov was paying attention now. “…Bezukhov, I don’t like you enough to confirm that outright. What’s your point?”   
“So it’s not just me, thank god.” Pierre said in relief.

Dolokhov threw the rag on the counter. “No, no thank God. Natasha Rostova is a problem you just validated. We need to get rid of her.”   
“Whoa whoa whoa, let’s not be _hasty_!” Pierre said quickly. “I mean, we don’t want to _murder_ her.”   
“Obviously.” Dolokhov agreed. “No, I was thinking we could sort of… push her towards someone else, away from Anatole and Bolkonsky.”

“What does Andrei’s father have to… oh, right. Sorry, it’s confusing.” Pierre smiled sheepishly.   
Dolokhov shrugged. “Not really. I just call him the wrinkly old shit.”   
Pierre blinked rapidly. “Anyway… who did you have in mind?”   
Dolokhov paused for dramatic effect, and unfortunately Anatole filled the silence. "I'M GONNA LIVE, I'M GONNA FLY, I'M GONNA FAIL, I'M GONNA DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE." 

Dolokhov smiled fondly at the noise, before looking back to Pierre and smirking. “Church mouse Bolkonsky.”   
Pierre stared at him. “ _Mary_?” Then he leaned forward. “Who outed her?”   
Dolokhov chuckled. “You did, just now. And also the fact that she was spying on Rostova today, staring at her like she was the prettiest doll in the window at Christmastime.”   
Pierre wrung his hands. “If Natasha hurts her—and she’s going back to the city eventually—then Andrei will be very, very upset. He’ll kill you, and he’ll break up with me.”

“I don’t care about one of those things.” Dolokhov shrugged. “But Church Mouse probably needs to settle down and get away from wrinkly old shit _sometime_ , so she’s not _going_ to be hurt.”   
“What makes you think Bolkonsky would let his daughter do that?” Pierre hissed.   
Dolokhov pressed his lips together. “Leave that to me.” He then lunged forward, catching Pierre by surprise (and by the front of his shirt). “Listen up, Bezukhov. If my half-baked idea goes through, and you start getting _suspicious_ … and start _telling_ people about those suspicions… Bolkonsky breaking up with you will be the least of your problems.”

“I understand.” Pierre swallowed thickly. Dolokhov released him, and Pierre moved away from his reach quickly. Dolokhov didn’t seem bothered. He reached behind the bar and pulled out a shot glass, then reached for a bottle of whiskey.   
“Have a drink, Bezukhov.” Dolokhov said. “On the house, as an apology.”  
Pierre’s mouth felt dry. He hadn’t had a drink in three months and Dolokhov wasn’t the most stable man in town… but he thought about Andrei. He’d be so disappointed in Pierre—he just got his three month chip.

“No. No thanks.” Pierre rasped.   
Dolokhov smiled wolfishly. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the shot glass and poured the alcohol down his own throat. “That’s one of the first times I’ve respected you, Bezukhov. Good on you.”   
Pierre glared at him. “Don’t test me with my addictions, Dolokhov.”   
Dolokhov grinned. “And that’s the second. Who knows, Bezukhov? By the end of all of this, I might consider you a friend.”

Pierre gave him the middle finger and left the bar.


	5. Ding, Dong, Bolkonsky's Dead.

Andrei Bolkonsky was no idiot. He trusted Fyodor Dolokhov as much as Marya Akhrosimova liked men romantically, which was admittedly not at all. He trusted Pierre quite a lot though, and tried not to make their upcoming conversation seem confrontational.

Pierre stepped back into the shop, immediately catching Andrei’s eyes.   
“We need to talk.” Andrei said, sliding over the counter and turning the sign to closed. Thankfully, no customers were there anyway.   
He then pulled a Breathalyzer out of his pocket and handed it to Pierre.

“Andrei, I’m not drunk.” Pierre insisted.   
“Please just do the Breathalyzer test.” Andrei replied calmly, crossing his arms.   
Pierre complied, and Andrei read the small screen. 0.00%. Andrei relaxed.

“I told you I wasn’t drunk.” Pierre replied.   
Andrei smiled. “Yeah, I know. I just… I have to follow the procedure we set up.” Then it fell. “So… what _were_ you doing at Kuragin’s?”   
“I… needed to talk to Dolokhov.”   
“You _hate_ Dolokhov.” Andrei pointed out, beginning to grow agitated.

“We have something in common.” Pierre said. “It’s nothing bad, he did offer me a drink as a sort of test…”   
Andrei ground his teeth. There it was—the fact that Fyodor Dolokhov was the biggest asshole in town. “I’m going to kill him.”   
“Andrei, stop.” Pierre caught his hand. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, he’s not worth it.”

“He tried to get you to drink.” Andrei growled. “He tempted a former alcoholic with his addiction. That’s _not_ okay.”   
“I know, and he’s an asshat, but how many more times will the sheriff look the other way? Save it for something that matters.”

Andrei scowled. “You matter. You matter so much, and if anyone _ever_ tells you differently, I’ll fight them.”   
“What if I say it?” Pierre laughed.   
“Then I’ll fight _you_. With my mouth. To your mouth. Softly.”   
Pierre pulled Andrei closer. “I don’t think I’d mind that.”   
Andrei kissed him, then pulled away gently. “Still going to fight Dolokhov soon.”   
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Pierre replied.

Meanwhile, Bolkonsky wheeled himself into the bar. “Dolokhov! Get me a beer!”   
Anatole’s singing stopped abruptly, and he peered over the railing to the floor down below. Noticing that it was just Bolkonsky, he rolled his eyes and turned up his music.   
Dolokhov smirked. “Nikolai, what kind of beer?”

“None of the _blond one’s_ light shit.” Bolkonsky sneered. He knew better than to insult Anatole directly in front of Dolokhov, at least while sober.   
“Coming right up.” Dolokhov said. “Actually, I think I’ll keep ‘em coming today. According to Natalya Rostova, we might get some more business soon.”   
“What, she’s an alcoholic now? I always knew she was trouble.” Bolkonsky sneered before sipping the beer Dolokhov slid him.

Dolokhov leaned on the bar. “No, it’s for her cousin’s wedding.”   
“Oh? Sofia? You should have married her, Dolokhov.” Bolkonsky gave a wicked smile, and Dolokhov fought the urge to shudder. “I’m good. But that means no wine today.”   
Bolkonsky, already half drunk, waved him off. “I just want beer. No namby pamby women’s shit for _me_.”   
Dolokhov nodded solemnly, and gave him another drink. Between the second and third drinks, Dolokhov took Bolkonsky’s heart pills out of his pocket. He wouldn’t miss them, but it wouldn’t do for him to remember them.

Dolokhov plied Bolkonsky with alcohol for what felt like hours. Eventually— _eventually_ —he passed out, stone cold drunk. Now came the callous part. Dolokhov swept up, cleared the glasses, and didn’t move Bolkonsky at all. Let him sleep. Anatole finally descended from the upper levels for the evening rush, and shot Bolkonsky a long look.

“Feddy, why do we let him in? He’s so… unpleasant.” Anatole clearly had more choice words to say, but then again, this was not a new conversation between them. Anything else would just be rehashing them all.   
“Tolya, he’s good money. No one else drinks in the day, especially since Pierre quit.” Dolokhov shrugged.   
Anatole shot Bolkonsky a withering glare. “I don’t think it’s worth it. We could sleep in, Feddy.” The grin he gave Dolokhov implied that there would not be much sleeping if he had anything to say about it.

Dolokhov grinned back. “Well, maybe.” He walked over to Bolkonsky and shook him. “Hey, the evening rush is coming in. Come on.”   
Bolkonsky didn’t wake up. Dolokhov felt guilt stab him through the heart— _no_. No, it was all for Anatole. And besides, he’d seen Wrinkly Old Shit with his kids. He was doing them—and the entire town—a goddamn favor.

Shakily, he felt for Bolkonsky’s pulse. Nothing. Dolokhov took a deep breath to steady himself. He was named for Fyodor Dolokhov, the ancestor who had killed a shah’s brother in law. An _assassin_. What was one shitty old man compared to that? He forced himself to remember the plan, that if Mary and Natasha are together, then Natasha won’t accidentally steal Anatole.

“Anatole. Go get the doctor—I think Bolkonsky’s dead.” Dolokhov said.   
“Kutuzov died months ago!” Anatole bit a nail nervously.   
“Then Natasha. And get the Bolkonsky siblings—I’m taking their father up to the apartment, just in case he’s asleep. Either way, it’d ruin business.”

“A man _died_ , Feddy. In our bar.” Anatole snapped. “God, even I’m not that callous!”   
“Anatole, go get help.” Dolokhov hissed. _This was all for you_. “We don’t know that he’s really dead yet. Hissing at me like a goose won’t help anything!”   
Anatole looked contrite, which was rare for him. “You’re right. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Feddy.” He pressed a gentle kiss to Dolokhov’s mouth and left.   
Dolokhov tried not to dissolve into a puddle of guilt and worry that Anatole didn’t deserve someone who murdered defenseless old men.

Mary arrived first. Dolokhov had replaced the pills in Bolkonsky’s pocket, and laid him out on the couch in their apartment next to the bar. She hovered in the doorway, just staring at her father as though he was about to leap up and scream at her.

Andrei arrived next, and he slung an arm around his sister, muttering quietly to her about how it would all be alright. Natasha finally arrived, clearly flushed, and Dolokhov returned to the bar. Someone had to.

Natasha set to work examining Bolkonsky. “Did he have heart problems?”   
“Yes, but I always made sure he took his medicine.” Mary said. “…although, it did mix badly with alcohol but he never listened…”   
Natasha sighed and stepped back. “I’m so sorry, but he has been dead for hours. Given who came and got us, I think the alcohol overpowered his heart medication, if he even remembered to take it. You should probably pursue an autopsy.”

Mary just stared at her father, dry-eyed, as though she couldn’t quite believe it.   
“It’s not worth it.” Andrei remarked. “I think we should all leave, Dr. Rostova.”   
“I doubt Dolokhov and Kuragin will let your father stay here.” Natasha snarked.   
“I don’t care what those two asshats think, Natasha.” Andrei snapped. “I’m leaving, and you should too.”

Natasha resisted the urge to put up her middle finger as he left.   
“He just doesn’t know how to process this.” Mary said quietly. “He’s angry at _him_ … he never got to tell him what he thought. He never will.”   
“And how are you processing this?” Natasha asked softly.   
Mary’s eyes began to well up with tears. “I’m-I’m a terrible, wicked woman.”

“Don’t say that!” Natasha said hurriedly, pulling her into a hug.   
Mary pushed her away. Tears began to spill over her cheeks. “It’s _true_. I’m terrible, and he’s dead because of it!” Mary sobbed, before running off down the hall like Andrei. Unlike Andrei, Natasha pursued her, drawing Mary into another hug. “Hey, hey. You’re not terrible and wicked, and it’s _not_ your fault. Why do you think it is?”

“I didn’t go with him, I didn’t make sure he took his medicine and stayed away from alcohol.” Mary whispered. “For what, a few hours to myself? I’m so selfish.”   
“Mary, you’re not selfish.” Natasha insisted. “You were abused—”   
“ _Don’t_. Don’t let me justify feeling this way.” Mary hissed, stepping away. “I’m not—I’m not supposed to be relieved that he’s dead!”

Natasha took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything. Finally, she took Mary’s hands in hers. “Mary, I don’t think that you should be alone tonight. Do you want to come home with me, and spend the night at Marya’s house?”   
Mary swallowed another biting reply, and nodded wearily. She didn’t deserve to be around Natasha and Helene and Sonya and Marya, not like _this_ , not when she’d just killed her father, but she was too much of a coward to be alone. Stupid, stupid Mary.

Natasha led her out to Marya’s pickup truck, and helped her in. Marya met them at the door, apparently already aware of what had happened.   
Mary was sure Marya Akhrosimova would turn her away— _she_ was a religious woman with upstanding morals, who didn’t let _scoundrels_ into her house.   
Instead, Marya smiled gently at her. “Welcome, Mary.”

Mary stared at her, and Natasha gently steered her into the house. Sonya Rostova and Helene gave Mary looks of pity— _why_? Didn’t they realize that Mary had killed her father? That she was a wicked girl who didn’t even regret him dying? Dinner was a quiet affair, someone placed a bowl of thick, hearty delicious soup in front of her. No one screamed, no one even seemed to speak that much, instead just trading looks.

“So, Marya, how’s your garden coming along?” Natasha finally said.   
“It’s good.” Marya replied. There was a pause. “I planted some sugar-snap peas today.”   
“That’s always nice.” Sonya said after another lull in the conversation.   
Mary lowered her spoon. “You don’t have to do this for my sake. Any of this.”

Helene gave a small smile. “Yes, let’s not have the conversational skills of people who’ve all had affairs with one another and are trying not to make it awkward. We have a _guest_. Natalya, would you ever consider moving back?”   
Natasha nearly spat out her soup. “Wh—permanently?”   
“Yes. We need a new doctor since Kutuzov… went to live on a nice farm upstate.” Helene waved her hand in a vague motion.

“I’ll send someone from the city, I have a few contacts.” Natasha replied.   
“But outsiders never last long in Moscow.” Helene pouted. “We need one of our own.”   
Natasha grimaced. “I doubt anyone thinks of me as _their own_ in Moscow anymore. Hell, even my parents had to flee town as though the Cossacks were on their heels after the Incident.”

Helene rested her cheek on her hand. “It’s been 12 years, Natasha. _But_ , if you want to drum up goodwill by practicing a bit—there’s just so much time before you girls have to go back to the city—I’m sure no one will mind.”   
“…I’m 29?” Natasha said to no one in particular. “I don’t need to basically be signed up for summer camp.”

Mary cracked a small smile at that. The rest of the night continued much the same way, and for a moment, she could forget. Just for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, Dolokhov was the only one I'd count as responsible for Bolkonsky's death.


	6. Lots of Emotions, Not So Much Editing

They held the funeral quickly, as summer in the Midwest is not an ideal situation for any corpse. It was only Mary and Andrei at the end, and the priest who performed the ceremony left as quickly as possible. They stood in silence for a few moments, before Andrei began, “His name was Nikolai Andreivich Bolkonsky. He was born to Andrei Bolkonsky the Third, and Vassilisa Kutuzov on October 11th, 1948. His father was one of the original settlers in Moscow, arriving as a child.”

“Andrei, what are you doing?” Mary asked.   
“When Mama died, Father told her whole life story, from start to finish.” Andrei explained. “It… feels right to tell his.”   
Mary nodded slowly. “I guess.”

“His siblings died young, so he was cherished by his family. His mother called him her little treasure. His father, Andrei the Third, died in Korea, so it fell upon Nikolai and his mother to run the family store, started by Vladimir Bolkonsky. He grew up quickly, having to stay out of school to mind the store. He regretted that in particular, I think. He regretted a lot of things about his life in Moscow.”

Andrei took a deep breath. “On September 7th, 1966, Carol Stevens’ car broke down in Moscow. She came into the store asking for help, and they began talking. He let her use his store’s phone, and she was told that a tow truck would only come out next week. She called her family, and he offered her a place to stay. They were married in June of 1967. However, Nikolai was shipped out to Vietnam, and Carol lost a child while he was gone. He was wounded, and sent home. They didn’t try again for another child for some time. On January 27th, 1983, Andrei Bolkonsky the Fourth was born, much to the surprise of… well, everyone.”

Mary squeezed his hand gently, aware of what was about to come.   
“On May 18th, 1988, they had another child. They named her Mary, after Carol’s mother. Mary Vassilisa Nikolaevna Bolkonsky. She was born prematurely, and Dr. Kutuzov didn’t think she’d last the night. She did. Carol didn’t. Nikolai was left alone with two young children overnight, and he didn’t take Carol’s death well. He began drinking, and he-he was… he wasn’t the best father. He handed over control of the store to his son when he turned 18, and forced his daughter to take care of him.”

“The doctors told him that he needed to cut back on his alcohol, that it was weakening his heart. They told him that it was negating his heart medication. He didn’t listen. On June 12th, 2017, he went into Kuragin’s bar—‘The Club’. He had two beers, two rounds of shots, and a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He was pronounced dead by Dr. Natalya Rostova at 7:03pm on June 12th, 2017, in the apartment of Anatole Kuragin and Fyodor Dolokhov.”

“Do you have anything you want to say?” Mary asked.   
“Lots of things.” Andrei growled. “First of all, fuck you old man. Fuck you for dying before I could tell you to go to hell. Fuck you for thirty years of your bullshit. You weren’t the only one who was upset when Mama died. But you would have let us _die_ to wallow in your own grief. She told you to protect us, to care for Mary!”

“Andrei, stop.” Mary ordered, more bravely than she felt.   
“No! You can sit in the car, but I’m not done.” Andrei snarled.   
“He’s _dead_ , Andrei! It doesn’t matter anymore! He’s dead, and we shouldn’t speak ill of him!”   
“That doesn’t erase how I feel! And if it was you, or me, do you think he’d even come to the funeral?”

“You’re just like him.” Mary said frostily. She regretted saying it immediately.   
Andrei looked like he’d been struck. “No. _No._ ”   
“Andrei, I didn’t mean—”   
“But you said it. You _said_ it. And I’m not proving you wrong right now, am I?” Andrei sank to his knees, running a hand through his hair.   
“Andrei—”   
“Just _go_ , Mary!” He snapped. “Go, before I do something just like him!”

Mary went. She walked along the road, not bothering to go back to the car. It wasn’t like the movies, it didn’t rain. There wasn’t sad music. He was just… dead. Gone. And she wanted to claw out the part of her –and part of Andrei—that was relieved. They shouldn’t feel this way. She walked all the way back to Marya’s house, and surprisingly, they let her in once again.

Marya handed her some lemonade, while Helene fussed with her hair.   
Natasha poked her head in. “Mary?”   
“Natasha, I…” Mary swallowed. “I said some horrible things to Andrei…” Bit by bit, she explained the situation.   
Natasha gathered Mary’s free hand in hers. “Mary. Mary, listen to me. Your father was abusive.”

“He was still my father!” Mary shot back. “I should have, I should have—”   
“ _Listen_.” Natasha repeated. “It’s alright that you don’t mourn him as much as you feel you should, alright? The brunt of it came down on _you_. And it’s alright that Andrei doesn’t mourn the same way as you. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

“He wasn’t abusive. He never hit _me_.” Mary said. Inwardly, she finished, ‘ _but he hit Andrei…_ ’   
Natasha looked to Helene.   
Helene sighed. “Masha… you remember my father?”

“Vassily Kuragin.” Mary nodded, ignoring the diminutive form of her name.   
“The very same. He had very rigid expectations for Anatole and me, and got very angry when we deviated from them. He would say cruel, terrible things to us, and try to force us to ‘behave’. Do you think that was right?”

“No.” Mary answered in a small voice.   
Helene smiled sadly. “Exactly, we were children. And even as adults, it wasn’t exactly _right_ to treat us as human beings only if we complied with what he wanted. But he never raised a finger to me or Anatole, though I can’t say the same for Ippolit. So, even if he didn’t hit anyone, he was still abusive. Do you understand why I’m telling you this?”

Mary nodded, and then lunged for Helene, pulling her into a hug. Helene stared at Marya, vaguely panicked.   
‘Hug her back.’ Marya mouthed.   
Helene awkwardly wrapped her arms around Mary. “You know it took me a long time to work through this. I needed Mashenka’s—I mean, Marya’s—help.”

“Smooth.” Marya commented, even though she was smiling. “ _Lenushka_.”   
Helene froze. Her eyes darted towards Mary, and it was clear she was considering throwing her at Natasha and tackling Marya into a passionate kiss.   
“Mashenka, that’s not fair.” She pouted.   
Marya sipped her lemonade. “It’s completely fair, Lainey.”

Helene no longer looked as though she was considering it.   
Natasha was well aware of this. “Come on, Mary. We don’t want to see old people sex.”   
“What?” Mary asked.   
“Old people?!” Helene fumed, momentarily distracted.

“Elena, let them be.” Marya said. “Natasha’s just teasing.”  
“Natasha will be leaving now.” Said girl said, steering Mary out of the room. Natasha brought her out to the garden, and then out to the area where they were holding the wedding.   
“It’s lovely.” Mary said, looking out at the rolling fields.   
Natasha took her hands in hers. “Yeah. Sonya did good choosing this spot.”

“…Natalie… why did you choose this spot? Why do you keep letting me in, wanting to associate with me? You _know_ what I’ve done.”   
Natasha pulled Mary into a hug. “You haven’t _done_ anything. You’re a sweet girl who has been dealt a very poor hand, and I want to help you, Mary. I like you a lot—”   
Mary, emotions running wild, and not quite believing Natasha with her excellent family life would ever understand what she had done, suddenly leaned up and kissed her. Burning lips pressed to Natasha’s, both girls trembling slightly.

Mary pulled back just as quickly.   
Natasha’s world had more or less been dumped on its head. Mary liked her—or Mary was feeling vulnerable enough to make advances and try to seek… comfort? But that didn’t seem like Mary, who kept everything bottled up. She wasn’t as interested in sexuality as Helene.

So. Mary liked her. Natasha didn’t mind that, she meant it when she said that she liked Mary—and was honestly more shocked by the fact that Mary had initiated the kiss rather than herself. Good for Mary. Natasha snapped out of her near catatonic state of reflection to realize that Mary, who she wanted to say all of that last part to in person, was fleeing across the fields, black skirt pulled up around her knees.

Natasha, who had a gym membership that she never used except on January 2nd when she tried to pretend she’d go through with her New Year’s Resolution, was reasonably certain that she couldn’t catch Mary on foot.   
She turned and ran back to the kitchen, bursting in on Marya and Helene.

Helene was straddling Marya, but thank God they were both fairly clothed. Natasha did _not_ need to see her elder-sister-figure have sex.   
Marya still shrieked though.

“I need the car keys!” Natasha said quickly.   
“Gas is expensive here.” Helene pointed out. “Why?”   
“Where’s Mary?” Marya demanded.

“I need to tell her I like her too!” Natasha said.   
Helene perked up. “You need to woo her? Why didn’t you say so? Go go go! The keys are in the dish next to the door!”   
Natasha nodded her thanks, then dashed off. She ran into Sonya in the hall, fresh off of a call with Virginie. “What’s going on—”

“I need to chase down my own potential girlfriend, talk to you later!” Natasha kissed her cousin on the cheek, grabbed the keys, then ran out the door.   
Sonya decided that was normal, and proceeded into the kitchen. She was not as lucky as Natasha, and there was a lot of shrieking.   
“Doesn’t anyone in this house _knock_?” Marya demanded.   
“Most people don’t have sex in the kitchen!” Sonya shot back, trying to flee the room and running into a wall.   
“Taking off shirts isn’t _sex_ , it’s a prelude to sex.” Helene sniffed. “If you’re going to wander in and be offended, at least get what we’re doing right.”

Natasha, meanwhile, had reached town. She hopped out of the car, and sprinted into Bolkonsky’s. Andrei had also returned to town by this point, and was behind the counter with Pierre, despite the latter’s protests.

“Where’s Mary?” Natasha panted, suddenly regretting most of her choices in regards to exercise.   
“Why? Is something wrong?” Andrei asked quickly.   
“She kissed me. I want to tell her I like her… you’re okay with that, right?” Natasha asked uncertainly, ready to run again.

Andrei glared at her. “I haven’t seen Mary for hours, and even then, I don’t think we’re exactly speaking. That being said, sure I’m fine with it. _If_ you don’t hurt my sister. If you even think about it, don’t think _anything_ , or _anyone_ will save you from getting a beatdown.”

“Sorry, he’s a little high strung.” Pierre swooped in, laying a hand on top of Andrei’s. “The funeral was today.”   
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Natasha said quickly, interspersed with pants. God, she was not made for even that small amount of sprinting.   
Andrei raised an eyebrow, and Pierre grimaced. “It’s… fine. Congratulations on your relationship with Mary, I hope you two are happy together.”

“It’s not a relationship yet.” Natasha corrected. “She kissed me, I turned into a statue, next thing I know she’s running across the prairie with the legs of an Olympian cross-country athlete. Is that redundant?”   
“A bit.” Pierre shrugged.   
Andrei glared at Natasha. “What did I say about hurting my sister?”   
“Stop taking out your anger on me, Bolkonsky. Mary told us what happened.” Natasha snapped.

Andrei growled, and Pierre stepped forward, pulling him back a bit.   
“I think you should talk to Mary tomorrow.” Pierre said. “When tensions are a bit lower.”   
“I mean, I drove all the way out here. Gas is expensive.” Natasha shrugged. “I think I’ll wait in town to talk to her?”   
“You’d have more luck around the house.” Andrei gripped the countertop so hard his knuckles turned white. “She’s not coming here, I scared her off. I’m _just like him_ , after all.”

“…okay. That is clearly an issue _you_ two need to work through. Thank you for the advice.” Natasha trudged out of the general store, and walked away towards the Bolkonsky house. Pierre turned to Andrei. “You know she didn’t mean that?”

“Natasha, or Mary?” Andrei spat bitterly.   
Pierre pulled him into a hug. Andrei went still for a moment, before reciprocating.   
Pierre pulled away, but held Andrei’s hands in his. “Listen to me, Andrei. You’re not like him, not at all. Mary was upset, Natasha didn’t want you to start fighting _her_ , so she brought up the incident.”   
“Who am I, if I am so easily provoked though? There’s a grain of truth to it Pierre. He wasn’t always… that terrible old man wearing my father’s face. He was a good man before Mama died, like I tried to be.”

“You _are_ a good man.” Pierre insisted. “And if I died tomorrow, would you turn on those around you? Destroy them? Break them down to feel better about yourself?”   
Andrei went silent, then squeezed Pierre’s hands. “I don’t know.”   
“Let me put it this way. If I dropped dead, right now, would you hurt your sister?”

“No. Of course not.”   
“Then you’re already a far better man than your father ever was.” Pierre cupped Andrei’s face in his hands. “I just want you to know that I love you just as much as you love me, and that’s _because_ I know you’re a good man.”   
Andrei smiled and kissed him. “God I love you.”

Across the street, Anatole frowned and lowered his binoculars. Then he yelled down to Dolokhov, “Feddy, we can be cute, right?!”   
“Depends on the situation.” Dolokhov replied.   
Anatole went downstairs, sparing Dolokhov’s heart and not taking one of the poles running throughout the restaurant. Those were for _later_.   
“Pierre and Bolkonsky are being cute. We can be cute.” Anatole said.

Dolokhov raised an eyebrow. “Anatole, any affection that isn’t sexual makes you blush like a schoolgirl. I held your hand once and you told me that we needed to wait until marriage.”   
“In public.” Anatole waved him off. “And I’m not ashamed of you, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Dolokhov raised an eyebrow.   
“I’m not!” Anatole insisted, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into a rough kiss. He felt Dolokhov smile against him.   
“Okay, you’re not.” Dolokhov chuckled as he pulled away.   
Anatole didn’t release his shirt, instead staring straight into Dolokhov’s eyes. “I mean it. No matter what you’ve done.”

Dolokhov’s eyes widened. “You know about that?”   
“No, you just confirmed it.” Anatole finally released him, plopping himself into a barstool expectantly. “You’ve been squirrelly since Old Bolkonsky died.”   
“He was a good customer.” Dolokhov said.   
Anatole rolled his eyes. “He was a… what do you call him?”

“Wrinkly old shit.” Dolokhov smiled slightly, before sobering up and leaning over Anatole. “Tolya, what I’m about to tell you may scare you. I-I… I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore.”   
“Did you cheat on me?” Anatole frowned. “Because you should have asked, I would have been open to a threeway. You _know_ this.”   
“No, Tolya…” Dolokhov took a deep breath. “I contributed to old Bolkonsky’s death.”

“Did you kill him?” Anatole asked.   
“I… yes. I took his pills, and I gave him far too much alcohol.”   
Anatole leaned back. “And this is why you haven’t been cuddling me as much. Fedya, I must admit something too. I _like_ those cuddles. They’re… they’re _nice_.”   
Dolokhov smiled slightly. “I know.”

Anatole looked petulant. “Clearly you don’t, because you’ve been withholding them over something that doesn’t _matter_.”   
“Tolya, I killed a man!”   
Anatole stood up. “You didn’t. _He_ accepted the alcohol. _He_ didn’t take his pills, didn’t ask after them either. Personally, I just wanted to ban him—you _know_ I wanted to ban him, but at least now he can’t come back and make a scene.”

“You live for making scenes.”   
“Yes, but that’s _me_. I’m allowed to make scenes in my own bar. I’m making a scene right now. This doesn’t explain why you have been withholding those whiskery morning kisses, by the way.” Anatole gave him the side-eye. “You agreed to tell me when you’re angry with me.”

“Tolya, I’m not angry at you. I just… I’m a murderer, you really want a murderer cradling you?” Dolokhov asked gently.   
“You’re an idiot, is what you are.” Anatole stated bluntly. “I don’t give a shit that you ‘murdered’ him. You didn’t, by the way. Manslaughter, at best. And of course I want you to keep things the same, even knowing your ‘sin’.” Anatole was very fond of air quotes.

“Manslaughter?” Dolokhov repeated, amused.   
“You heard me.” Anatole sniffed. “And by the way, nothing would change unless you killed someone I actually liked. I let you run your hands over me after you’ve been out hunting and you are _covered_ in blood. Why should this be worse? …don’t say it, I heard it. You know what I mean.”   
“And what would you do if I went to prison, hmm?” Dolokhov asked, leaning in.

“I’d find myself a new idiot.” Anatole replied fondly.   
“Careful, I might get jealous.” Dolokhov closed the distance and kissed Anatole gently. Anatole of course deepened it.


	7. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o shit waddup?

Mary seriously considered sneaking through the kitchen door, especially when she saw that Natasha was waiting for her. However, Natasha saw her before she could sneak around the house.   
“Mary, I want to talk to you.” Natasha jogged up.   
“You don’t feel the same way, you want to be friends, it’s _fine_ …” Mary said quickly. “Just let me get to my house.”

Natasha gently caught her hands. “No, Mary… I _do_ feel the same way. I would like to pursue a relationship with you, if you’re comfortable with it.”   
Mary had, in fact daydreamed about this several times. This would be the part where she said something grand, like, ‘then let us be together’, but all she managed was a small, “Really?”

“Really.” Natasha smiled. “We can take it slow, if you like—”   
Mary cut her off with a kiss. “I’ve taken my whole life slowly. I don’t want to do it anymore.”   
Natasha blinked owlishly. “Alright then. What does that mean…?”   
“Would you like to come back to my home tonight?” Mary asked, almost proudly.   
“Jesus, Mary, that’s a bit _too_ —”   
“I have a new recipe for shortbread that I want to try, and we could watch cable? I have heard it’s good.” Mary flushed. “I’ve never… is it bad I want to do these things, now that he’s gone?”

Natasha’s face softened. “No, of course not.”   
“But… I also feel so alone in that house…?” Mary said softly. “I don’t want to talk to Andrei—not that I’m using you to get over my father’s death, or anything! I just—I want to—it’s not…”   
“Shh shh shh—it’s alright.” Natasha smiled. “Let’s go watch cable and make shortbread.”   
“Thank you.” Mary said softly.

The next day, Andrei and Mary still hadn’t made up. Andrei strode into The Club at nine am.   
For once, Anatole and Dolokhov weren’t asleep. Indeed, Anatole was  dashing around with various cleaning supplies.   
“Feddy, when did we buy this bleach?” Anatole demanded, stopping short at the counter and waving a bottle in the air.

“The day before we opened The Club?” Dolokhov replied calmly.   
Anatole gave a shriek of indignation. “It’s probably expired!”   
“I don’t think bleach _can_ expire.” Dolokhov said, peering at the bottle in interest.   
Anatole narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend. “Don’t be coy, Feddy. Will this inadvertently poison everyone in here?”

“If you mix it with that other stuff like you were planning, yes.” Dolokhov eyed the plastic bucket half full of various cleaning liquids.   
Anatole gave a hiss of dissatisfaction, and nearly threw the offending bottle at the bucket. “Fuck…”

“The day I thought I’d see you clean is the day I thought I’d be straight.” Andrei commented.   
Anatole spun to face him, and Dolokhov looked up. Both looked distrustful, but Anatole looked slightly more angry.   
“You! This is all your fault! If _he_ hadn’t seen the way you and your sister react to your father, we’d all have been spared so much time and pain!” Anatole threw his hands in the air.

“What?” Andrei said, taken aback. “How—what are you even talking about?”   
“Patience, Anatole. We may need him.” Dolokhov looked disgusted at the idea. “Or Helene will, at least. And if Helene looks suspicious, so do we.”   
“What. Are. You. Talking. About?” Andrei repeated, slowly, as though he was talking to an annoying child that he was trying to annoy in turn.

“Father is coming to town!” Anatole hissed. “He’s coming up from Miami with Ippolit because your father kicked the bucket!”   
“Could have waited to hold the funeral.” Dolokhov noted.   
“And you need me because…?” Andrei gestured vaguely for them to continue.

“Vassily doesn’t know Pierre and Helene are divorced.” Anatole huffed. “Probably going to have to chat up Mary Bolkonsky…”   
“…you’re going to hit on my sister so soon after our father’s death, ask me for use of my boyfriend in your charade—not him, me—and blame _me_ for this situation, even though my father died in _your_ bar under suspicious circumstances?” Andrei said in disbelief.

Anatole and Dolokhov both froze in shock, then Anatole stepped between Andrei and Dolokhov. “No. No. NO. You’re not taking Feddy. You’ll have to kill me first—and I did it! It was all me!”   
“Thank you for confirming my suspicions, Kuragin. There _was_ foul play.” Andrei huffed. “And I don’t care which one of you did it. You freed me, and you freed my sister. For that one small part, thank you. For the rest, fuck you. And I will deny that small bit of gratitude if anyone asks. The point is—I’m not going to the authorities, but damn if I’m not pissed off.”

“So what d’you want us to do about it?” Dolokhov asked, picking Anatole up around the waist and moving him, then vaulting over the bar to put himself between Anatole and Andrei. “Rostova’s the one who failed to revive him. She’s the one who’s fucking your sister. Anatole’d just get her some flowers and get her to talk to Vassily.”   
“To _lie_ to Vassily.” Andrei sniffed. “Stop trying to use my sister for your machinations. Stop trying to get me _involved_ in them! And by the way, don’t try to distract me. Natasha’s not to blame, for once.”

Dolokhov cracked his neck. “Do you want to take this outside, Bolkonsky? I know you’re itching for a fight.”   
“Why not?” Andrei asked.

Anatole grabbed Dolokhov’s arm. “Not now.”   
“It’ll only take a moment—”   
“He’s itching for a fight because he wants to avenge his father. _Don’t_.” Anatole said urgently, before spitting a word as if it was foreign. “ _Please_.”   
Dolokhov watched him for a moment before sighing. “You heard Tolya. No fighting, Bolkonsky.”

“Fine by me, asshole.” Andrei rolled his eyes. “I came to… I don’t know. Thank you? Fight you? Mary’s still gone, and I…”   
“She’s not hiding here, Bolkonsky.” Anatole snapped, rolling his eyes in return.   
“I know that!” Andrei snapped back. “I just…”

“You have lost most things in your life.” Dolokhov cut in, nodding slowly. “Understandable.”   
“I haven’t _lost_ my sister! She’s not a dog!”   
Anatole blinked rapidly, looking from Andrei to Dolokhov and back again several times. “We’re not… are we the closest thing you have to _friends_?”   
“Don’t be ridiculous.”   
“Oh my god. We are, aren’t we?” Anatole let out a low whistle. “You barely associate with anyone—your sister’s apparently not speaking to you, Pierre’s not a help right now, you hate Helene more than me so you can’t drop by Marya Akhrosimova’s house, and Natalie is right out, isn’t she? She’s with Mary, after all, and _someone_ has a lot of pride?”

“One, I didn’t know Natasha and Mary were a thing. Good for them.” Andrei said, though inwardly he was seething. This was _not_ protecting his baby sister. “Two, speaking of pride, have you looked in a mirror? You’re the living embodiment of it—of course, not all of it being 100% heterosexual, so good luck hiding that before old Kuragin gets here.”   
Anatole slung an arm around Andrei’s shoulders. “That’s no way to talk to your best friend.”   
“I hate you.” Andrei said.

“Ha ha ha, don’t we have such fun times, Andrei?” Anatole’s grip tightened.   
“Old Kuragin isn’t even here, what are you doing?” Andrei demanded.   
“Play nice with me when he is, or we’ll tie you up and keep you prisoner in the back room.” Anatole said.   
“We will not do that.” Dolokhov interjected. “At all. Because that’s crazy.”

“Alright, then it’s plan B!” Anatole said dramatically.   
“That’s not what… no.” Dolokhov sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “Let the nice man be, Tolenka. We still have a lot of work to do before Vassily and Ippolit get here.”   
Andrei slipped out of Anatole’s hold to accentuate the point.   
“This isn’t over, Bolkonsky.” Anatole warned, despite glancing at his aged cleaning supplies. “We’ll need you to help out!”

And for the first time in his life, Andrei had some sort of feeling of understanding towards Anatole Kuragin. He didn’t _beg_ , even if Andrei held all the cards. He demanded, because Kuragins had the pride of peacocks and the stubbornness of pigs. And why shouldn’t they, if they told everyone that they were the best? …but if Vassily was anything like Nikolai, which he probably was, then that was a façade. And Andrei had never felt such unrelenting pity for Anatole Kuragin before. It felt weird, and uncomfortable, like getting one’s socks wet and walking around with that all day.

But even Anatole Kuragin could have his uses. He could no longer protect his sister—maybe this jumped up, rejected clone of David Bowie would do in the meantime.   
Andrei shrugged, and turned towards the door. “Alright. You two know where to find me if you need my help.”

“…That was weird.” Anatole muttered as Andrei left.   
“Very weird.” Dolokhov agreed.   
“…so. New issue; I feel like we should take down the bearskins and Persian rugs, they’re a bit…” Anatole gestured vaguely. “Grotesque? They’ve gathered so much dirt over the years, Fedya. I swear to God, that was a polar bear pelt your great-grandfather brought over from the Motherland.” Anatole pointed to a dark brown pelt near the door to illustrate his point.

Dolokhov sidled up to the pelt. “He doesn’t mean that, Lyovushka. You are _particularly_ handsome today.”   
“…oh my God, I’m going to marry a furry.” Anatole muttered.   
“What was that?”   
“Nothing, just called you a furry.” Anatole flushed.

“I could have sworn you mentioned marriage, Tolenka…” Dolokhov teased.   
“Nope, nope, nothing of the sort. I am a free spirit, and I intend to remain that way.” Anatole effectively ended the conversation by picking up his bucket of cleaning supplies and more or less sprinting away.

Across town, Helene had heard that Vassily was coming. She, however, was going to stand her ground, more or less because Natasha had the truck in town. (She had, briefly, considered calling Anatole and having him burn down their house to pretend there’d been an accident, and _that’s_ why she was with Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova.)

Marya came up behind her as she sat on the bed, clothes strewn about her as she tried to pack. Just in case.  
“Lenushka? Do you need any help?” Marya asked softly, sitting next to Helene.   
Helene sniffled. “I’m fine, Mashenka. Really.”

“You don’t look fine. Remember—we promised to talk about this, to help one another?” Marya prodded gently, taking Helene’s soft hands in her rough ones. Marya, as always when Helene needed it, was being surprisingly gentle.   
Helene took one hand to wipe her eyes, mascara smearing around the edges and running down her cheeks. “I hate him.”

Marya didn’t need Helene to clarify. Instead, she pulled her love into a hug. “I know.”   
“And I want to stand up to him, to show him I have you. Someone I love more than anything.” Helene nearly burst into tears. “But I’m so scared.”   
“I’ll be right there, Lainey. What’s the worst that he can do?” Marya asked softly, rubbing Helene’s back with her free hand.

Helene didn’t answer, she simply lunged for Marya and pulled her into a tighter hug.   
Marya kissed Helene’s neck as best she could. “It’ll work out fine, don’t worry.”

A few rooms away, Sonya was Skyping Anastasie. To be fair, she was meant to be Skyping Virginie, but Anastasie had taken over.   
“Can I talk to Ginnie? Or… should I call back?” Sonya asked.   
“No no no, it’s _fine_.” Anastasie said in heavily accented English. “Henriette! Pull those corset strings like a sailor from the 1700s caught in a storm! You must… trim the sails, or whatever it is!”   
“Stop watching _Pirates of the Caribbean_!” Henriette, Virginie’s other sister sniped off-screen.

“Non! Besides, Virginie has the bigger problem of _not fitting into her antique wedding dress!_ ” Anastasie hissed.   
“I didn’t _ask_ for Grandmere’s monstrosity from the 1950s!” Virginie hissed off-screen.   
“It’s much older than that.” Henriette sniffed.

Sonya sighed. “So… I’m gonna call back…”   
“No no no, let’s _talk_ , we haven’ had girl talk since I found out you were… what’s the American term… doing the underpants dance with my sister!” Anastasie waved her hand. “Why should we stop being friends over that, hein?”

“You screamed at my Sonya and called her a harpy because I dared to date one of your friends.” Virginie said wryly.   
Anastasie pouted. “I was drunk, it was a bad time to have found you two sucking face in my garden. Let bygones be bygones, eh? Besides, I was confused at the time—drunk ‘Stasie wondered if our friendship had all been a lie. It hadn’t been, so we’re good. We’re super cool. So about your little town, what is it like?”

“Are there any nice boys?” Henriette called from off screen.   
“None that are single.” Sonya grimaced.   
“Are there any _cute_ boys? I don’t care if they’re single.” Henriette giggled.   
Virginie huffed. “Don’t ruin my wedding with your flirtations, Henriette!”

“Oh, sh sh sh, baby sister.” Henriette said. “I’m the eldest—you need to remember that. You like girls, I like boys, we all like fun, yes? What’s the problem if no one gets hurt?”   
“The poor girlfriends of the boys may be hurt.” Virginie huffed. “And then out comes the weaponry at _my_ wedding and then Uncle Alex is fighting Grandmere and we must take shelter in the cab with all of our cousins. And _then_ I end up spending my wedding night huddled together with Uncle Louis and Aunt Angelique watching the brawl _instead_ of being with my Sonya.”

“That’s quite a vivid fantasy.” Anastasie commented.   
Sonya stifled a laugh of her own.   
Virginie sighed. “Please stop embarrassing me in front of my fiancée.”   
“It’s cute.” Sonya insisted. “I promise.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better.” Virginie said dramatically, and Sonya heard the rustle of fabric. Anastasie rolled her eyes, but smiled. “So, about your adorable tiny town…?”   
“That’s a surprise, but not too many friends please.” Sonya smiled awkwardly.   
“Ha ha ha, fair enough.” Anastasie grinned. “But you want Angelique Hamilton to bring her camera, yes?”

“Yes, please.” Sonya said, with obvious relief.   
“We’ll pay her.” Virginie interjected.   
“Over her dead body.” Anastasie snorted.

“Angie is a good girl.” Henriette agreed.   
“Speaking of good girls, let me see my Sonya.” Virginie sighed. “Please?”   
“Absolutely not—and ruin the surprise?” Henriette sniffed.   
Anastasie slowly began to close the laptop. Sonya realized what she was going to do. “Ginnie, I love you!”

“I love you too, Son--!”   
‘Would you like to Rate Your Call?’ Skype asked, the connection having been severed.   
Sonya gave it about a 3.


End file.
